The Gift of the Magistrate
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The guys investigate a fishy will, and Mark learns that old habits are hard to break.


Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and I didn't invent the concept of the O.Henry ending, either. No profit being made, not so much as a ha'penny.

Author's note: This is my first real story, with a plot and everything. It's set in the first year, before and after _Flying Down to Rio_. The guys investigate a fishy will and Mark discovers old habits are hard to break in a little Christmas fic called:

The Gift of the Magistrate

By L. M. Lewis

On a Saturday morning, in early November, Hardcase got the notion that the attic at Gull's Way should be overhauled. McCormick could do the heavy lifting while the judge sorted through stuff. He thought it was a good plan. McCormick made the usual remarks, but the complaints were pretty perfunctory. He'd already seen the Hardcastle basement, where he'd found a thank-you note from an ex-president in with a scorecard from the 1949 World Series, and a picture of Sally Rand, autographed "To Milt, What a Guy!!! Love, Sal". Hardcastle had scowled when McCormick suggested they get that last item framed, but he hadn't put it in the 'get rid of' bin. Mark thought if the attic was half as interesting, it might keep him in pointed comments for weeks.

By mid-morning they were up to their elbows in dusty record albums and antique sports equipment. McCormick had seen a couple things that had piqued his curiosity—one was a box labeled "Tom's papers, grade school" in a woman's neat handwriting. Hardcastle had pushed that one to the back of the attic, hadn't even opened it. McCormick kept his mouth shut. He'd only been at the estate a few months but he knew certain signs when he saw them, and this one was written in big dark letters: Don't go there.

Mark carried a stack of jigsaw-puzzle boxes downstairs, and then returned for a box of ancient ice skates. _Ice skates? Who keeps ice skates in southern California? _He shook his head. Hardcastle was hunched over another box with a distant smile on his face.

"What's that?"

Hardcastle sat up straighter, made a move to put the lid back in place. "Nothin', just . . . something of my wife's. Stuff she collected." But McCormick was already up by him and staring down at the figurines.

"Wow." He sat down on the trunk across from the judge. "She had a lot of them." He reached down, hesitated. Hardcastle didn't say anything, didn't try to stop him. He touched one of the figures, picked it up carefully, turned it in the dusty attic light--a Wise Man, the one who wore green robes and a turban. It was elaborately painted and looked old.

"These must be worth something—" Mark said without thinking, then immediately regretted the way it had come out. "I mean they must be valuable—"_sheesh, just shut-up already, you idiot. _

"Oh, nah, she got 'em one or two every year--this place over in Van Nuys, an Italian shop." Hardcastle reached for a shepherd and was looking at it. "She always looked forward to that, to setting them up in the front room." He put the shepherd back.

McCormick was still looking into the box, studying the pieces, each nested in its own padded space--twenty years of trips to Van Nuys, twenty years of coming home with something wrapped in tissue paper, in a paper bag. It didn't matter if it hadn't been the judge's 'thing', he would have been happy because she was excited. He would have smiled, as she unwrapped it to show to him. He would have admired her choice, and admired the whole thing again once she had them all set up. Somehow Mark knew all this--just as sure as he was that these pieces hadn't seen the light of day since the judge's wife had died . . . Then he noticed one unfilled space in the corner of the box.

"The empty spot?" He bit his tongue again. It was a reminder of life cut short, plans unfinished.

"Oh, you know how it is, things get broken."

"Yeah." McCormick put the lid back.

November crept into December. The judge and McCormick returned from the sunny and dangerous San Rio Blanco to find a loaded answering machine, the first message from an upset and anxious friend of Hardcastle's.

"Lucy Atwater, known her for years. She runs a place called 'Safe Harbor Children's Center'. It's an after-school program for kids over in LA., real nice lady." He sat down and dialed the return number she'd given.

"Lucy? Yeah, it's Milt. I was outta town on business. What's going on?"

From his place, sprawled on the chair by the TV, Mark couldn't hear her reply, but the context was clear from the judge's face.

"Well, sure we could meet you. At the center? Yeah. That's fine." He hung up the phone still frowning.

"Snidely Whiplash after the widows and orphans again, judge?" McCormick reached for the remote.

"Yeah, you might say that." The judge stood up and clapped his hands together. "Come on, let's saddle up. Gotta meet a lady about a shady will."

"Juu-udge," McCormick tossed the remote back onto the table. "We haven't knocked the sand off our sneakers yet. My suitcase isn't even unpacked."

"Doesn't matter. Got a job to do. Justice delayed is justice denied."

"And a suitcase unpacked is a suitcase full of moldy t-shirts."

"Come on McCormick," the judge growled.

Safe Harbor was a sprawling old house in a part of town that was verging on urban renewal. The woman who answered the door was tall, wiry thin, with steel-rim glasses and a no-nonsense hairstyle. When she saw the judge she allowed herself a small smile, but it looked like the first one in quite a few days.

"Oh come in, Milt. I've been so worried." She led the two men through what had once been a formal parlor. There were bins of toys along the wall and a stack of kid-sized carpet squares in one corner. Beyond there was another smaller room, with chairs and desks, papers everywhere, efficient chaos.

Hardcastle introduced Mark. "--my assistant." McCormick caught that, wondered if he'd gotten some sort of field promotion down in San Rio that he hadn't been told about, then smiled at Ms. Atwater.

"The judge said you've been here for almost twenty years."

"Yes, it's a childcare program for families who don't qualify for other assistance, the ones whose kids would otherwise have to go home alone after school because the parents are working the afternoon shift, or maybe even two jobs. There are a lot of single working mothers, too."

McCormick was looking back through the open doorway back at the cheerful room with its polished hardwood floors. The morning sunlight streamed through the picture window. He felt a sudden urge to punch Snidely Whiplash in the nose, though he knew, from what Hardcastle had told him on the drive over, that the guy's name wasn't Snidely, but Bruce Weatherspoon.

"J. T. Weatherspoon was such a wonderful man. The arrangement was a dollar a year's rent. He paid the utilities and hosted a fundraiser for us once a year. There were even kids who started out here, back when we first opened, who J.T. hired later on. He never actually showed me any paperwork, but he always told me that even if he died, the center would live on. He saw it as his legacy."

"And now--?" the judge asked gently.

"He's gone, just like that, a month ago. They say it was a heart attack. And last week his son, Bruce, shows up and says 'the party's over,' those were the exact words he used. I've got a one-page lease, we did those annually, it expires on December 31st. Then we're out on the street." She was sitting, looking around her as if she couldn't quite believe what was happening.

"And he says there's nothing in the will about a bequest?"

"He showed me the papers. He's the executor. It's a very basic will. J.T. was widowed and only had the one son. It left everything to him. It doesn't make any sense. J.T. didn't even _like_ Bruce very much. Well, he tried not to show it, but he said things sometimes . . ."

"And the witnesses, on the will, did ya happen to see who they were?"

"I didn't look at the signatures; I was so upset at the time."

"That's okay, the will's on file at probate, we can check it out. Problem is, Lucy, that challenging a will takes time and money, and I gotta say, you not being family and all, the chances of the court setting aside an existing will for what you say J.T. wanted, well—"

"The kids'll all be wearing latch-keys around their necks before that happens," Mark finished, grimly. "What about these kids you say Weatherspoon hired?"

"Oh, they weren't kids by then. Randy Helms was 20, smart as a whip. J.T. took an interest in him all along. Helped him with getting into college, then took him on in his real-estate business a couple years ago. Bruce told me Randy's working for him now. Jorge Ruiz's case was a little different . . ."

"Different how?" McCormick asked, looking like he already knew the answer.

"He got into some trouble in high school. There were a lot of problems at home. He wound up in a foster care, and then J.T. took him in. He got him through high school, but it was nip and tuck there for a while. Since J.T. died, Jorge's been arrested on a drug charge."

"That can only have been a couple of weeks ago, huh? So we know where to find him," Hardcastle slapped one knee and got up. "It's a start."

"We'll run by the Hall of Records," Hardcastle said, when he and Mark were back in the truck, "see Rosie, get a handle on this will--sounds mighty suspicious to me, a big real estate guy like Weatherspoon having the basic model. Then we'll tackle these two protégés of his. Give you a chance to look in at your old alma mater—eh?"

"Oh, yeah, that'll be a thrill, Judge."

They found Rosie deep in her cavernous file room.

"That's a fresh one," she said, when Hardcastle told her what he needed, "might be in the twilight-zone, records-wise. You know, on the way between here and there, not settled down yet. Give me a couple days, Judge."

"We're on a tight schedule here, Rosie. I need you to do that magic thing you do."

She nodded, fished a granola bar out of a coffee can labeled 'really dead ones' and turned back to her computer.

The afternoon had turned wet and chilly. The judge, working the phone from Rosie's lair, had located Jorge Ruiz in Men's Central over on Bauchet and gotten the basic rundown on his record and charges. As he and the judge walked up the steps of the jail, Mark tried to convince himself that the shiver he felt was only an adjustment from the recent balmy days in San Rio.

"Hey, Hardcastle, maybe you should take this one on your own; it's gonna be a big hassle processing me through."

"Not if you're with me, kiddo."

"Of course not, they'll probably just figure you're bringing me back for a refund."

They showed their ID, or rather Mark did, Hardcastle just flashed a smile and asked the officer how his daughter was liking it at UCLA pre-law.

"Do you know _everybody_ in the California criminal justice system?" McCormick leaned over and whispered as they sat in the interview room, waiting for Ruiz to be located.

"Not everybody, a few have come in in the last couple of months." They looked up as the latch on the door turned. "Now pay attention here, you might learn something about interview technique."

An officer led in a shorter man in jeans and a white t-shirt, early twenties, light olive skin with a small scar on his chin.

"You can leave him, Officer Kemp."

"But, sir—"

"Stay in the hallway."

Ruiz had slid down into a chair across from Hardcastle at the table in the center of the room. Mark got up and leaned against the wall, out of the way, gauging the young man as no threat. The kid looked tired, more beat down than anyone he'd seen in . . . in the last four months, since the last time he'd walked out of this place himself.

"Just who are you, anyway? They said you was some kind of a judge. Why you want to see me?"

"You got a lawyer yet, kid?"

"Got a public defender. I think maybe I've been in court more times than he has."

McCormick stifled a laugh. Hardcastle shot a stern look at him before turning back to Ruiz.

"You know this is a pretty heavy beef they got against you. A half a kilo of heroin, that's gonna be some major time, especially with your record."

"It wasn't mine. I never saw the stuff before."

"So maybe I believe you. Tell me why someone would waste that kind of stuff to burn somebody like you?"

The kid had turned sullen, his eyes looking down at the edge of the table. He was starting to get wound up pretty tight McCormick thought, and he eased around to the side to flank him.

"Who's your bodyguard?" The kid jerked a chin in Mark's direction and then looked Hardcastle in the eye again.

"I'm just another guy who had a public defender, kid. I'd maybe try to answer the man's questions. He may be the last hope you've got."

The kid spat onto the floor next to the table. "The last guy said everything would be okay if I just played by the rules. He said finish school, work hard. Keep your nose clean. So that's what I did, and look where it landed me. I would have been better off if I'd just stuck to heisting cars on Sepulveda. Nobody's gonna believe me if I tell 'em the rich son of a rich guy planted smack in my glove compartment, and then called the cops on me."

McCormick was looking at Hardcastle, who was looking at the kid with the empathy born of his recent experience being framed on drug charges in San Rio.

"Actually," Mark said quietly, "you couldn't have picked a more responsive audience to spin this tale to, but you still haven't explained 'why?'."

"Because I know the old man had a will. I saw it. And it wasn't the will that the kid was waving around after the guy died. The old one had more pages."

"Bingo," said Hardcastle. "Now all we have to do is find a copy of it."

They talked to the kid for another half an hour. He didn't know who the witnesses were on the other will, had only seen it a couple of times, out on the old man's desk, never saw where he took it from or put it back. He'd seen Weatherspoon standing by the fireplace one time, leaning on the mantle with the blue covered sheets folded in his hand, then a short time later he'd been at his desk, the papers out of sight. Ruiz had been curious, figured there was some sort of secret hiding place in the room.

Did Randy know where this hiding place was? No, Randy had asked him one time, that had been a few months ago. So had Bruce, though most of the time he had been too high and mighty to even speak to Ruiz. He'd told them he had no idea, but he thought they didn't believe him, and wanted to discredit him before he could go to the police.

"Either that or the Heroin Fairy paid me a visit with some real bad timing." Ruiz chuckled humorlessly. "That's all I know."

Hardcastle reassured the kid. Figuring out the hinky business with the will would be a big step in providing reasonable doubt on the drug charges.

"It's pretty circumstantial, anyway. Those two were putting a lot of faith in you fitting the profile and the system putting a rubber stamp on it."

"Yeah," said Mark, "and we all know the system never sends innocent guys up the river."

When they finally walked back out onto the street it was nearly dark. McCormick looked around him, taking a deep breath of the damp, cool, very fresh air, and letting it out again.

"Well, whaddaya think, kid?" Hardcastle fell into step with him as they walked back towards the truck.

"I think there's a will somewhere in that room, unless those two guys have already found it."

"So you liked Ruiz's story, huh?"

"Yeah, and so did you. I could tell."

"Well, as frames go, that one wasn't too creative."

"I'll tell you one thing, Judge, I'm gonna start checking the glove compartment regularly. We've got way more guys mad at us than Ruiz did."

They stopped by Safe Harbor to fill Lucy in on their progress. A young woman in a cobbler's apron let them in. The house was crawling with kids now, little ones in the front parlor, older ones coming and going from the back rooms. Lucy was at the kitchen table helping two middle-schoolers with their homework. Hardcastle stepped in to the kitchen to give her the report. Mark felt himself get mugged from behind, at the knees, and twisted around to see a small face looking up at him from a very long ways down.

"Hey, kid, don't you know you're supposed to be shy around strangers?"

The little boy stared up, still clutching McCormick's leg. The woman in the cobbler's apron came up to detach him.

"Sorry about that. His name is Eddie. We call him the leech." She took the boy into her arms, gave him a hug and carried him back to where the rest of the children were playing.

"S'okay," Mark said quietly as she walked away. Then Hardcastle was back.

"Lucy says she thinks she can make up some sort of excuse to get us in to see Bruce. There's furniture upstairs that came with the house. He says belongs to the estate and he's been asking for a list. She can have it ready for us tomorrow."

The next morning the judge headed out in the Corvette to see Rosie and to get the inventory papers from Lucy, leaving Mark with a to-do list that included buying a new garden hose, mulch, and a set of windshield wipers for the truck. After he'd picked up the last item, Mark made a detour to a place in Van Nuys that he'd looked up in the telephone directory a week and a half earlier.

He felt nervous standing in the little shop, waiting for a very short, dark-haired clerk to finish wrapping a set of figurines for another woman. This was either a brilliant idea, or the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and when it came to stupid, he'd already set the bar pretty high. Then the lady behind the counter was done with the other costumer and turning toward him.

"May I help you?"

"That one, there, that's the one I need."

"The whole set?"

"No, just that piece."

"I'll have to check in the back, we were almost out of them. This one is part of a set." She was gone only a few minutes before she returned, holding up the piece and smiling. "It's the last one of those. A gift?"

"Ah, yes."

"I'll find a little box for you." She was rustling under the counter. "There, perfect." She nestled it down in the box on a layer of excelsior, closed the lid and slipped a loop of gold elastic cord around it. "Lots of people buy them like that, one at a time. It's a nice tradition."

Mark handed her the money and slipped the box into the pocket of his jacket.

Back at the estate he found Hardcastle at his desk, studying a copy of the Weatherspoon will.

"Where ya been? I thought you'd be back an hour ago." He groused.

"It took a while for the guy at the car parts place to stop laughing after I told him what model it was for. Besides, you saw how traffic was out there. It's like nobody's ever driven in the rain before." Mark dropped into the leather chair and went into his typical sprawl. "And the left rear brake-shoe feels uneven. I think it's gonna need some work. Have you had lunch yet?""

"The brakes are fine. Will you look at this?" He had the pages turned back and was waving the last page in McCormick's direction. "The witnesses, see this."

"Not unless you hold it still." McCormick raised himself out of the chair and snatched at the document.

"Randy Helms," the judge said with some satisfaction, "and this other guy, Arthur Kemp, I checked him out, he was an old business associate of Weatherspoon's who, just conveniently enough, has been dead for about a year."

"The will is dated September of last year." McCormick leafed through the rest of the pages, each one initialed 'J.T.W.' and the last one bearing the signatures.

"If there were any other relatives, this thing would have gotten a real hard looking over in probate. But with only Bruce around, hell, no will at all would have done the trick, just takes longer that way. And maybe those guys didn't want anyone having an excuse, or time, to look for another document. So my guess is those two put their heads together, right after J.T. died, and came up with something that was just good enough to pass muster, forged two dead guys signatures to it, and predated it just far enough back so nobody'd think it had been superseded. Then one of them thought Jorge might raise a stink. So they got him shipped off to the slammer and sat back to reap their ill-gotten gains."

"But now Bruce has to include Randy in the haul. Why'd he want to do that?"

"One dead guy's signature on a will is expected, two is okay, but three would be stretching the limit. Randy was supposed to be the disinterested party who would vouch for the document, if it came to that."

Mark was looking more closely at the papers in his hands, flipping back and forth between the last couple of pages.

"Hey, Judge, I've got an even better reason why Randy gets to share the loot. And I bet I know who were the witnesses to the original will. Look at this. I know this is just a photocopy but look at the type, the 'a' on the first few pages is gunkier. Somebody cleaned the keys between typing page three and the last one. I think they lifted the final page from the original will—they must've found a copy."

"But they knew there was a good chance there was another one hidden somewhere, otherwise why frame Jorge?" Hardcastle thumped his fist on the desk. "But a gunky 'a' and a sloppy frame isn't enough to take to the police."

Mark was looking thoughtful." You know, Judge, I am _really_ good at finding things."

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed as he stared at the younger man. "No you don't. You are not even going to think about stuff like that while you are in my custody."

"_Custody?_ What happened to 'judicial stay'? What happened to 'This is Mark McCormick, my assistant'?"

"What'll happen, if you get caught going out in basic black and having a crack at J.T.'s study, is that I'll have to take out my own trash cans and you'll get to share a cell with Jorge Ruiz, that's what'll happen. So don't even think about it."

"Well, at least we can go over and rattle their cage a little."

"Now your cookin' but," he added gruffly, "no casing the joint."

Hardcastle had the address. Mark drove. The Weatherspoon home was tucked away modestly behind a row of oaks, dignified, not flashy. It seemed to fit what Mark had learned so far about J.T. As they pulled up the drive a man appeared at the door, young, thin, sandy hair and a sport-coat that looked off-the-rack. _This must be Randy,_ Mark thought, _answering the door for his new employer._

"Lucy sent you?" The man asked as Hardcastle climbed out of the truck. "You brought the list?"

"Yup, right here," the judge patted the breast pocket of his jacket.

"You can give it to me." Randy smirked as he held out his hand, "I'm Mr. Weatherspoon's personal assistant."

"Well, that's nice." Hardcastle smiled. "But you see, there's a couple of items that Ms Atwater wants me to get some clarification on. So I'll have to talk to Mr. Weatherspoon myself." He was already pushing past the younger man towards the door. "Lucy must've mentioned that to you."

Randy looked flustered, like he wasn't quite sure how he'd wound up following Hardcastle into the house. _You've been outmaneuvered, buddy,_ McCormick thought, _now you're going to have to regroup and go and report to old Brucie._

Mark slipped in quietly behind the other two, closing the door behind him and spending a long moment studying the security panel next to the door. As he'd expected, Randy was backing off down the hallway saying "Just stay right here, please, I'll tell Mr. Weatherspoon."

As soon as he'd ducked out of sight around a corner, Hardcastle marched into the large formal living room off the hallway and made himself comfortable on a sofa. McCormick wandered slowly around the room, looking restless.

"Stop that." Hardcastle hissed.

"Stop what?" McCormick replied innocently.

"Stop what you are doing right now, which if it isn't casing the joint, is close enough."

"Geez, Hardcase. I'm not even touching anything. You want me to stand here with my eyes closed and my hands in my pockets?"

But Hardcastle had turned toward the doorway, a large, friendly smile plastered on his face, rising to shake Bruce Weatherspoon's hand. The conviviality was not returned. The other man barely touched his palm, looking at the judge with an expression of mixed distrust and distaste as he went to stand next to the fireplace.

"Ms Atwood has the inventory ready? I hoped to send a moving van around next week. There were some valuable antiques left in her care."

"Ahem, yes, well, I do have the list," Hardcastle pulled the sheets out of his pocket with a flourish but did not hand them over. "But there are a couple of items here that your father had made personal gifts of, to Lucy or to the center." He was running his finger down the first sheet slowly.

Mark had stepped back over to the doorway, where Randy had come in behind his boss and was now standing nervously. He leaned over and made a quiet request.

Randy frowned and pointed back up the hallway. "Third door on the left." McCormick nodded his thanks and slipped out of the room choosing not to notice Hardcastle's expression as he glanced up from the papers.

McCormick miscounted doors carefully and wound up in the study. Focusing on the floor plan and the windows, he touched nothing and made no attempt to find any secret panels or hidden drawers. He was back out, saying a small 'oops' incase Randy was within earshot, and then ducked into the bathroom.

When he returned to the living room the judge and Bruce were deep into it, with Hardcastle flinging Latin legal phrases and the younger man retrenching. McCormick had never seen the judge do a full-bore frontal legalese attack. He thought if this kept up, not only would Lucy Atwater get to keep all the furniture, but Hardcastle might get to take home the couch he was sitting on as well, but as soon as Mark drifted back to his place next to Randy, Hardcastle closed up shop, folding the list in half and handing the sheets to Weatherspoon.

"Then I guess we have an agreement. You'll need to tell Ms Atwater when the pick-up will be."

Weatherspoon sputtered, not sure if, or how, he had won. Hardcastle was already up off the couch, offering to shake hands again. Then Randy escorted them gratefully out the door.

Hardcastle vulpine smile melted away the moment the door closed behind them. He pointed McCormick to the passenger's side of the truck without saying another word. When they were both inside, and halfway down the drive, he turned toward him and said, in a low but barely controlled voice, "_What_ were you doing in there, McCormick?"

"I was in the bathroom, Judge, do you really want to know? So what were you doing?"

"Hmph," Hardcastle looked barely mollified. "I was coming to some conclusions about Mr. Weatherspoon's boy, Bruce."

"And they were?"

"That's a very nervous young man in there. Maybe it's just a guilty conscience, but it might be something more. He's acting like a guy who needs a lot of money fast. I'm wondering just who he got that heroin from and what he promised for it. I think Bruce is in over his head. Maybe we can leverage that."

Mark said nothing. He knew exactly what would break this thing open, but if Hardcase thought that he was thinking like that, he wouldn't let him out of his sight long enough to get the job done.

Back at Gull's Way, McCormick retreated to the gate house, thinking about it the whole time. He decided it didn't have much to do with the look that Eddie the Leech had given him back at Safe Harbor; it was really more some sort of character flaw, this need to poke a stick in the spokes of the system. _It's like a damn itch, why all this tap-dancing around when you could just scratch the thing and have done with it?_ He heard Hardcastle take the Corvette out. He'd said earlier that he had some errands to run. McCormick hoped he wouldn't make a late night of it; the judge would have to be back home, and upstairs at the main house with the lights out, before Mark could take care of that itch.

1:52 a.m. McCormick was lying on top of the covers on his bed in the gate house. He'd taken the box out of his jacket pocket and put it on the table next to the bed, wondering what had possessed him that morning. You don't buy a Christmas present for the guy who sent you up for two to five . . . He wondered if he should put a note on it, just in case he didn't make it back for Christmas.

At 2 a.m. he got up, checked his bag one last time, and went out to the garage.

The security system at the Weatherspoon estate was mostly for show. They might as well have gotten one of those little metal signs and just skipped the rest. McCormick was inside in less than five minutes. He'd had a couple of good guesses when he'd seen the room that afternoon. He quickly checked those out, finding nothing. '_He was standing next to the fireplace, holding it. A moment later he was at the desk, and it was gone.'_

McCormick ran the flashlight over the mantle, following it with the fingertips of his gloved hand. The plaster and wood were solid. He dropped down to a crouch examining the fireplace itself, the brick-work was immovable. The round knobs on the top of the brass andirons gleamed in the near darkness. He reached for one. It was stuck firmly in place. He sighed, leaned against its mate to push himself up, and thought . . . it turned just a little. He put the flashlight down and twisted the knob hard, feeling it give, slowly at first and then easily.

He suppressed a yelp of joy--the tall vertical part of the andiron was hollow. This had to be an accidental hiding place, something J.T. had found in his own childhood and cherished long after it had ceased to have anything but sentimental value. McCormick reached in with two fingers and withdrew a thick coil of papers.

He didn't go straight back to Gull's Way, making one last stop before he headed for home. The sky was just tingeing pink in the east when he coasted into the drive. There was Hardcase, thumping the basketball, scowling at him. McCormick said a silent prayer of thanks that he'd had the good sense to shed the black sweater he'd been wearing, and had taken the time to stow it, along with his very interesting backpack, well out of sight behind the driver's seat.

"Where've you been, McCormick?"

"Out for a drive, watching the sunrise, smelling that fresh morning air."

"This is the Pacific Ocean, smart guy; people don't usually drive along it to watch the sunrises. Did you find it?"

"Find what, Judge?"

He stood up and slid out of the Coyote. This was the tricky part, if he walked off now, Hardcase might well let his curiosity get the better of him. McCormick had no desire to make him an accessory after the fact. He leaned casually against the side of the car, arms folded, Hardcastle trying to stare him into some sort of confession. A long moment passed before the judge turned away and sank the ball one-handed for a three-pointer.

"Tell you what," McCormick said, "twenty bucks says I make twenty points first."

The judge collected his twenty dollars as they headed in to breakfast. McCormick consoled himself with the notion that he wasn't at the top of his game, after staying up half the night committing a felony.

"You know," Mark pondered out loud, while he cracked eggs into a bowl, "J.T. seemed really attached to Safe Harbor, it was going to be his legacy and all. Maybe he would have left a copy there—"

"Without Lucy knowing about it?"

"Yeah, hidden, he seemed to like that sort of thing. You know how _eccentric_ old guys can be, right, Judge?"

Hardcastle was looking at him speculatively. "You mean we should go over to the center and search around a little, and maybe we'll find a copy of the will?"

"You never know."

"Well, I told Lucy I was bringing some stuff over this morning."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah, you know, stuff--some books and things for the kids. I put it in the truck. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to help her take a look around while we're over there."

"This morning? Don't suppose you'd want to wait till later on?" McCormick's vision of catching a quick nap vanished.

"Come on," the judge smiled wickedly, "a young guy like you can miss a couple hours sleep without falling apart."

Eggs, toast, and coffee did a lot to resuscitate McCormick. He even went up to the attic for one last box of children's books. That's when he noticed another box was missing. He spent a few moments poking around, thinking it might have gotten moved again, but as soon as he'd seen the empty spot he knew what the judge planned on doing.

_Damn, of course, he doesn't really even want to look at it-- too many memories._

McCormick got up slowly, hearing the judge calling him, asking what was taking so long. He picked up the books and went downstairs and out to the garage. Yup, there it was in the truck, carefully pushed towards the front, with nothing setting on top of it. He stowed the last box.

"You ready?" Hardcastle asked as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Um, yeah, gotta check and see if the gate house is locked. It'll just take a second."

He went around to the gate house door, slipped inside, went up the stairs and snatched the small box off nightstand, stowing it deep in his pocket. Now he'd never know just how bad an idea his little purchase had been, but no need for it to go to waste. At least the kids would enjoy it.

They found a parking space near the center. Mark unloaded the boxes and brought them in while the judge talked to Lucy. McCormick carried in the box of figurines last, setting it down, and asking Lucy where she wanted them. She lifted the cover and her eyes widened.

"Oh, Milt, they're Nancy's set. I know how much she treasured them. They're beautiful."

"Well, ya know, she would've wanted to see somebody enjoying them." The judge smiled wistfully "And you know how she was about kids. I thought maybe you could use them here."

Lucy had dropped down to her knees beside the box, was picking up pieces and looking at them. "We'll put them in the main room, I've got just the place for them," she smiled wryly, "or, at least, I've got just the place for another two weeks."

"You know, Mark's got an idea about that." Hardcastle explained the theory. Lucy listened, looking puzzled but slightly hopeful.

"Here? Without telling me?" She paused. "But where?"

"Somewhere you don't go every day," Mark interrupted, "otherwise you would have run across it already."

"Most of the upstairs rooms aren't used much."

"Then that's where we should start."

They split up the rooms on the second floor, Mark taking the front room, once a bedroom, now used as the office for a visiting social worker.

"Probably not in here," he said, "Since it's in use." He'd gently steered Lucy toward a larger room, the one that was full of old furniture.

"We use this one for community meetings, and once in a while for fundraisers." Lucy told them. It was an impressive room, with dark wood wainscoting and a marble-mantled fireplace.

Hardcastle took the room in the rear, which also contained a clutter of furniture and looked rarely used or dusted. He seemed unusually attentive to the back window which opened onto a fire-escape. After conducting his own perfunctory search, Mark joined him there. Leaning up against the door-frame, he watched Hardcastle with a wary eye.

"Find anything?" he asked, hesitantly.

"We've got a very clean windowsill here, not much else," the judge replied.

"Maybe we should go help Ms Atwater," Mark smiled.

"You think it's in there, huh?"

"I think that's where I would've put it—if I'd been J.T." he added quickly. The ice beneath this conversation was getting a little thin.

"Then I guess that's where we should be looking."

They joined Lucy in the main room, where she looked as if she'd run out of ideas.

"I checked behind the paintings, under the carpets, in all the drawers, and underneath them. I even tapped on the floorboards. I don't think there's any hiding places in here."

Mark was by the fireplace, running his hands across the mantle, then over the bricks below.

"Getting vibes, are you?" The judge commented acerbically.

"Not yet." Mark turned around and leaned against the brass andiron, with one hand resting on the round top knob. Lucy was staring at him with a look of discovery on her face.

"Wait, that looks like it comes apart."

"What does?" Mark asked.

"That knob, try it!"

Mark looked down at where his hand was resting and said, slowly, "Oh, you mean this?" He thought for a moment that the judge was going to step over and clock him one. He twisted the knob tentatively and exclaimed "Lucy, you're a genius!" A second later he was pulling out the curled and heat-stained roll of papers.

"Oh, let me see." Lucy was at his side clutching at his arm.

The judge stood there, arms crossed, with an expression halfway between exasperation and delight, while Mark spread the papers out for Lucy to examine.

"Look at that," Mark said pointedly, "must've been here a long time, almost can't flatten the pages out, and the parts facing the fireplace have taken a beating."

"But we hardly ever use this fireplace," Lucy paused, thinking. "Maybe once in the last couple years.

_Oops._ Mark continued to smile. "Well, that's lucky, look at what just one time did."

"Yes, it's amazing." Hardcastle added, looking hard at McCormick.

"See, Judge, I _told_ you I was good at finding things."

They took their prize downstairs and examined it more closely. It was a lengthy and detailed document with two and a half pages devoted to bequests for Safe Harbor Children's Center, including the deed to the property itself, as well as a generous endowment for its upkeep. The pages were studded with additions and deletions, all made in J.T. Weatherspoon's distinctive hand, and extensively re-initialed by him. Lucy Atwater had been named the executrix.

"Note the gunkie 'a's through-out" McCormick said "and that's a mighty familiar last page."

"That was stupid. That's what's going to sink 'em." Hardcastle reached for the phone. "They should've gone with a completely new document. That page proves the other is a forgery rather than a successive will."

Lucy and Mark slipped into the front room as the judge set to work notifying the police and obtaining warrants.

"I can't believe it was here the whole time." Lucy looked doubtful but happy.

"I can't believe J.T. didn't take better steps to make sure the right people knew what he wanted done." Mark was staring out the window into the street. "I guess he thought it was enough that Randy knew."

"He trusted Randy. He'd done an awful lot for that boy. He treated him like a son."

Hardcastle came barreling out of the office. "The police will have warrants by the time we get over to the Weatherspoon place. Let's ride."

"Hi-yo Silver--" Mark waved back at Lucy with a grin, as he followed the judge out the front door.

The scene at the old estate was almost anticlimactic. Bruce didn't have his father's flair for hiding places and the rest of the heroin, which he had held back from the kilo that had been loaned to him, was easily located in the basement, along with papers showing Bruce's extensive debts to Harry Lamano, a racketeer well-known to Hardcastle.

The only moment of excitement came when Randy returned during the search, saw the police vehicles, u-turned across the lawn and tried to make a run for it. The truck was closest to the street and McCormick was closest to the truck. The truck was not the Coyote, but McCormick managed to run him into a blind alley and, fuelled by too much caffeine and too little sleep, was holding Randy up by his collar against the wall when the judge arrived with the police a moment later.

"You didn't mess him up too much, did ya kid?"

"Not as much as he deserved." Mark eased off and handed him over to the officers.

Mark hadn't been looking forward to the part that would come after the dust settled, but during the drive home he found himself almost wishing for it to happen, so it could be over. Not that he would have changed what he'd done, he really couldn't say that, but he never thought he'd feel this much _regret_ about it. Hardcastle hadn't said anything about it on the way home, but as he got out of the truck he made a jerking motion with his thumb towards the house.

"Come on, we're gonna talk."

McCormick followed him into the house, and into the den. He sat, and did not sprawl, in the chair Hardcastle pointed at, and the judge took his seat behind the desk. There was a long pause before the judge finally spoke.

"I just want to know one thing. Do you really understand what would happen if you got caught?"

Mark looked up slowly. This had not been the first question he'd been expecting and he hadn't been ready for it, but he didn't have to think about the answer for very long.

"Yeah. I understood. I understand. I've _been _there."

The judge put his hand on his forehead and shook his head in disbelief.

"You know I would've gotten that warrant eventually, somehow. It just would have taken more digging."

"--and Christmas is coming, Judge, and after that, New Year's. And bright and early on January 2nd, some real estate developer would have had their hands on Lucy's place and had it slated for demolition to make way for some condos or a strip mall. And Eddie the Leech would've gotten another one of those Life Lessons that are so important for kids his age."

"Eddie the who?"

"Never mind, it's not important. I did what I thought was right, and if you want to know what I did, then ask me."

There was another long pause as both men looked at each other. It was the judge who looked away first.

"Nah, I'm not going to ask you. I think I'll settle for knowing you wouldn't lie to me if I did."

Mark sat back in his chair, feeling the tension of a very long, hard day slip off him like a noose after a reprieve. It had been a talking to, not a yelling at.

After a moment he said, "You know, Judge, there one thing I just don't understand. How could he have done that to him?"

Intuitively, Hardcastle knew he was talking about Randy, not Bruce.

"I mean, the guy brought him into his home, he trusted him. I don't get it."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Nope, I don't suppose you would."

Epilogue

A few days later an invitation arrived at Gull's Way, addressed to both the judge and Mark.

"'Rededication and Christmas Party at Safe Harbor Children's Center.'" Hardcastle read out loud from his seat on the patio. "Well, that's nice. Sounds like she's not wasting any time getting things in order. Hey, it's tomorrow evening."

"I don't think I'll have to check my social calendar, Judge. No, wait; I'm scheduled for changing the oil on the 'Vette."

"Well, you'll just have to break that engagement. We're not gonna miss a chance to wish Lucy a Merry Christmas, are we?"

Safe Harbor was bedecked with decorations and exuded a warm glow of light and cheer as the two men mounted the front steps. Lucy was just inside, greeting guests. She turned to the judge and Mark with a look of gratitude.

"Probate gave me some sort of emergency writ, while things are being sorted out. I heard you had something to do with it, Milt. You are a lifesaver." She hugged him warmly. "And Mark," she turned to him with another hug, whispering in his ear, "how can I ever thank you?" It was obvious to McCormick that Lucy Atwater had not gotten where she was by being anybody's fool, but she was willing to play along for a good cause.

They were ushered into the main room. Mark spotted Jorge over by the kitchen door lifting a glass of eggnog in a silent toast to them. He nodded back and smiled at the festivities around them. Hardcastle had drifted over to the table in the corner where Lucy had set up the Nativity scene. He was looking down at it with a smile that slowly, ever so slowly, took on a tinge of puzzlement. Mark was just behind him, looking over his shoulder.

Lucy came up beside them. "It really is quite lovely, Milt. The children think it's the best Christmas decoration we've ever had."

The judge looked at her and smiled again. "Nancy would be so pleased. But, you know Lucy, where'd you find that replacement piece? I thought there was only one place that carried them, and when I went there a couple weeks ago, they were sold out."

I didn't buy any of them, they were all there. Oh, but that one was in a separate box. She pointed at the burro, nestled into the straw near the manger.

Hardcastle had turned around and was looking at McCormick, who had taken a step back and was studying the manger scene with a newfound intensity, to avoid breaking into a grin. The judge looked like a man who had already nailed means and opportunity, and was turning his attention to motive.

"You know, Judge," McCormick nudged him gently. "It just wouldn't have been complete without the get-away donkey--gray exterior, four on the floor. How about some eggnog?"


End file.
